


Our December

by LapOtter, scarlet_malfoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Awesome Molly Hooper, Christmas Angst, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Epistolary, John Feels, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Sherlock Feels, Slash Advent Calender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 21,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapOtter/pseuds/LapOtter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_malfoy/pseuds/scarlet_malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John got used to writing while he lived with Sherlock.  So he's been keeping up with his blog, but he's been keeping it private.  Sherlock's been writing in a notebook, too.  The Fall was two Junes ago; it's almost time for our boys to come back together. Even with their Sherlock-imposed exile, will they be able to do it all on their own... or will they require a little help from one another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 3:  John

**Author's Note:**

> This is an advent-type story that Scarlett and Otter are writing in December--yes, we started in December of 2012, took a year long break, just to get in character, and finished it up in the last half of December 2013, just in time for it to not be AU for three whole days. Even so, our hearts and souls went into this, and we hope you like it, too. Scarlett is writing John's journal; Otter is writing Sherlock's.

December 3rd, 2012  
At my new (to me) flat.

I don't understand how it can possibly be this warm outside. Just last week I had long underwear on under my trousers, and this morning I did, too, because apparently I don't have time to check the weather anymore. I had to change out of them in the loo at some cafe in central London, on account of how sweaty I was. And then I didn't know what to do with them, so I just threw them away. I'm still warm now, and I'm sitting out on the balcony. Someone's walking down below in a trench coat. Not his color. The sun is setting and maybe he's out there, though, feeling overly warm (for December) too. 

Overall... today was a very strange day. 

I hadn't planned on going by the old place, but I ran into Mrs. Hudson in line for the loo, at that same cafe. She was next in line when I opened the door, and she begged me to wait for her to finish. I very nearly didn't, but then I remembered that I hadn't seen her is god knows how many months. And I didn't want to leave like that, with her having already seen me. I know what that's like, on the opposite end. People are always nice to people they think are crazy, but they'll do anything to get away from them if they suspect it's possible. Not that I think Mrs Hudson's crazy or anything. Which is why I stayed.

So I waited, and when she found me standing there, she dragged me outside, and it was very crowded and loud. I could barely hear her, and so she dragged me over to some steps. I just took her hand and followed her down. I thought that perhaps she knew of some secret quiet street we could go to, but instead she took me on the underground all the way to Baker Street. 

We had tea and chocolate biscuits with the windows open in December. I smiled and avoided actually answering any of her questions about my investigation. I don't want her to worry about me more than she already does, the sweet old girl.

It had apparently been a much longer than I thought since I'd visited. Mrs. Hudson had to lend me a couple of paper bags in order for me to carry home all of the mail. 

I finished going through it all ten minutes ago – just bills, statements, nothing personal whatsoever – and then I came across a letter from Sherlock's bank, addressed to Sherlock's next of kin. 

I sat there for five minutes just staring down at it. Because nothing of Sherlock's has been delivered to 221b for almost a year and a half, now. I really would have thought that Mrs. Hudson would have mentioned it. Or sent it off to Mycroft after she received it. Or something else that made more sense than it being in my hands. 

And then I opened it, because it was the first time in a very long time that something of Sherlock's had sought me out, instead of the other way around. 

Just some old voided checks, I thought at first. Then I noticed that he had made them out to himself. All three of them. He'd used his calligraphy-styled signature, which I had only seen him use a couple of times on the rare occasion we went somewhere out for dinner. Dark lines, swooping first letters, beautiful and fresh, as if he'd just signed them. 

The letter from the bank stated that they had just recently gone through their personal filing systems to remove those customers who'd changed accounts over to other banks, and those who had died. And they had found these checks, totally unaccounted for, in a little-used filing cabinet that had been inside of a locked office for several months, at least. The bank employees themselves were mystified by their presence. 

Very strange, if you ask me. 

I might just have wondered about those checks for awhile, might just have gone in to question some of the bank employees that knew Sherlock, to ask them about the possibility of watching old footage from their security cameras, just in case there was something I was overlooking. But instead, I noticed the strangest thing about the checks.

_April 8th, 2012._

_June 23rd, 2012._

_December 25th, 2012._

I eliminated the thought that Sherlock had cashed them himself for money after he was gone, as the checks had all been voided early in 2011. But seeing the year, having the idea of it bloom inside my brain, even as briefly as it was comprehensible, energized me, made me sharply determined. This is something. It has to be something.

It has to be, because why would Sherlock write the wrong date on three different checks? And why would he have written them all out to himself? I never knew Sherlock to use cash if he didn't absolutely have to. And anyway, he just wouldn't do that. He wouldn't have made the mistake with the year once, let alone three times. The dates themselves aren't significant, aside from the last, it being Christmas. I checked back in the blog, and nothing about those three dates stands out to make them significant as a set. Nothing. There is nothing significant about them, except for the fact that they exist at all. 

I wish I could call someone, but there's no one who wants to hear another of my theories on Sherlock being alive. Lestrade's already almost had me committed on more than one occasion, and that's after he trusted me and followed my leads for eight months – leads that unfortunately went nowhere. Mycroft won't return any of my calls - he's very good at being elusive when he wants to be, and so he's no use to me. (I don't really want to talk to him, anyway, though, so that's fine.) Molly gets very agitated whenever I've asked her about Sherlock, and so I try to keep my distance so as not to upset her, or drag her back into the mess Sherlock and I made. And, it makes Mrs. Hudson very depressed when I mention anything about it, so when I see her, I try to pretend that the investigation isn't the biggest thing I've got going on in my life. That it's taking a back-burner to something else, perhaps. 

As if anything else has the power to do that, honestly. 

This is different than the other leads, though. I know it is. I haven't felt this light in a year and a half, and I am so anxious and excited because this is obviously Sherlock, or at least it seems that way to me. For once, something real that I can touch. Something other than my intuition, or my fading memories. Our last Christmas together, there was a case, of course, but we found some time during the day to celebrate. Sherlock demanded it. Literally, stubbornly put his foot down and demanded I prepare dinner while he played Christmas songs on his violin. He loved Christmas more avidly than he loved any person. 

_Loves. Loves. Loves._

Jesus Christ. Present-tense. 

Despite the checks, and the new hope that they have given me, it does get harder and harder, as time goes by, to think of him that way. In the now. Happening. Alive in my head but no one else's, except for maybe his. 

Sometimes, parts of me want to give up. There's no one who's with me on this, not any longer, and it's hard being alone. The not ever talking outloud, and the having no one to consult on the parts of this investigation, this search for Sherlock, that I can't understand. And it's been hard to forego other friendships, relationships. Sex. (Yes, that too.) I feel like I've turned right into him, sometimes. Which no one else in the world likes, or thinks is good in any way. But it's just. He told me, last Christmas, that Christmas is the most important day in the world to him. That he looks forward to it all year round. And that I should, too. 

I can barely type it. Was he trying to tell me, in all of these bits and pieces of paper and memories, that he would be coming back? It's just an idea. A barely formed theory, and I want it so I am more inclined to believe it, but still, all of my evidence points to it. I think that I will sleep on it, and come back to it tomorrow. I'll read the checks over again, and if I come to the same conclusion in the daylight, I'll know it's something I should follow up on. 

It's hard to trust my intuition sometimes this late at night. Sometimes when I am out, I think I see him on the streets, walking hard and fast away from me. But he always disappears when I turn around, leading me to believe that I must be hallucinating. That maybe I truly can't trust myself. Maybe I really do need to be committed, and have my head looked at. Something like that. 

If this is all here in the morning, and I still find myself believing that this could be true, I will pursue it, and drop my other leads. What would Sherlock want to hide away in Australia for, anyway? 

And so goodnight, because my hand hurts and I need to think about this. Goodnight to him, wherever he might be. I think of where that might be, all of the time. I hope he's not as alone as I am. I can only hope he hasn't given up on me. That the fact I haven't given up isn't irrelevant to him. Does that make me selfish? The fact that I'd rather he be unable to contact me, over unwilling? Even if that makes things harder or more dangerous for him? I've gone my entire life believing that to wish for that would be to wish for far too much. To ask far too much of someone. That no one would ever put that much faith in insignificant me, and so I shouldn't expect it. 

I want so badly to be wrong.


	2. December 4:  Sherlock

12-04-2012  
04:17 AM (GMT+1)

Message from M today: "JW alive." 76 such messages now, one for each week of my eighteen-month absence, on six separate phones. Ought to get rid of the old ones. Dangerous not to. Keeping them, though.

Ought to have asked M for more information. Thought it would be distracting, worrying about him; wanted only to know there is still a purpose to what I am doing. Still a reason to keep fighting.

Still something to go home to.

Almost finished now. Today--yesterday, in fact--sent an anonymous tip to Norwegian law enforcement, incl. the recording of the manager of JM's Norwegian operations discussing business in explicit detail with underlings. Enough confessed on that tape to imprison him for life. Once, the network would have had him out within days. Now there is no network.

Almost no network, and what remains is not concerned with the troubles of the Norway branch. Only one major player left. Once he's captured or killed, the last threads of Moriarty's web will blow away. Ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran, organization codename "Tiger." Accomplished large-game sport hunter; occasional poacher. Sniper. Right hand and deputy of Moriarty. By now, Moran is aware of who stalks him. The network he inherited from Moriarty is crumbling around him; he's no genius, but by now he must know.

Twenty-one days left till Christmas, my self-imposed deadline, and I am on a plane to London. The anticipation distracts me. I cannot stop thinking about him. Is he angry? Grieving, still, or has he moved on? I have seen the final message that he wrote in his blog, but has the intervening time worn at his faith? I never deserved such loyalty.

This sentimentality is crippling my work. If it were any other case--but it isn't a case at all. It's his life on the line. I need to protect him, and for that, I need to focus. Yet I find myself continually distracted, trying to guess what he might be doing, where he might be living, whether he is at this moment laughing or crying, alone or surrounded by friends. At this time of day, early morning, not yet light, he'll be sleeping, I think. But maybe not. Maybe his sleep is troubled, and he sits at the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. Maybe he has found a woman. Moved out of 221b--or, worse, moved her in. Maybe he is at this moment sleeping curled around her, a woman with a name as boring as his own--a Mary, I think. (But no. His name is not boring, not when associated with him. ~~Joh~~ ) Maybe he works a night shift at an A&E maybe he is at this moment saving a life.

That would be good for him. Give him the purpose and the adrenaline rush he lacked after Afghanistan. ~~I ought to be there, providing that for him~~

No. I ought to be here, protecting him. Moriarty can no longer give the order to have him killed, but Moran can. Mycroft is doing all he can to protect him from immediate danger, but there is only so much that can be done before the protectee twigs to the fact that he's being protected. Moran may or may not care about fulfilling his master's final wishes, but either way, he knows where my weaknesses are. Knows exactly where to put pressure on me, knows exactly what I cannot bear to lose.

Unless I have already lost ~~him~~ it.

I need to delete the irrelevant data that has built up in my brain the last several weeks. ~~He would say~~ I ought to sleep. I must be at my best when I land in London; there won't be a minute to lose. Most recent intel from M placed Moran in India, four days ago. I must arrive before he does. I can only pray he is not there yet.

I made a promise that I would be home for Christmas. He didn't understand--he understands so little--but I must keep the promise nonetheless.


	3. December 5: John

December 5th, 2012

I woke up yesterday morning and it was like no time had passed at all, except for the fact that I was well-rested. But my theory regarding Sherlock's potential message still filled my heart and mind. It hadn't faded at all, as if I'd been dreaming about it all night, and hadn't ever stopped thinking about it. 

I made coffee, I looked at the checks again at the kitchen table by the east-facing window, and I realized there could be no other meaning. No other reason that was not more convoluted to attribute their existence to. 

I know I cannot see everything. Neither can Sherlock; even he can't read minds or predict the future, although it might have seemed like it sometimes. 

For months I used to invent scenarios in my mind. I laid around 221b wallowing, wishing, and mourning for him, and the only way I could get by was to imagine it was all part of some grand scheme, with some ulterior motive behind my having to believe Sherlock was dead. Nothing made sense, it just didn't pan out. Not to me. People told me it was a lovely idea; wouldn't it be grand if it were true? When Mycroft stopped by on one of his rare visits, he got so upset at the notion that he swept out of the flat without another word to me. I never saw him again of his own volition. 

In the beginning, I sought out the truth in all the wrong places. I saw things that simply were not there, or that were simply irrelevant, I was trying so hard to think like him. I presented Lestrade and his team with facts that weren't viable, that weren't even facts at all. I needed to believe that he was not gone so terribly, my mind led me down false paths that Sherlock himself would have scoffed at. I was getting nowhere, and last year, after I realized that I had no one left to support me or that even half-heartedly believed me, I gave up. 

The next week, I was watching a news story on the telly regarding a series of murders in busy downtown Melbourne, and I saw him in the crowd. 

Only a split second of footage, and it was live television. I had no way of rewinding it to pause. I found the news story online and I paused it, enlarged it the image, cleaned it up so that there could be no mistaking it. And there couldn't be. Not his coat, not his hairstyle, or even his hair color, for that matter, but it was him. Only half his face was visible as he turned the corner, but I know him. I'd know him anywhere. 

Lestrade wouldn't help me. He wouldn't even look at the photo I had printed, and he would barely look at me. I had lost all of my useful contacts. Those who had helped in the beginning because they believed in Sherlock simply weren't able to believe in me. And so the information came to me slowly over the great distance, and one story that I kept rewinding in my head that was actually a memory was the only thing that kept me going. 

Christmas. 

Sherlock had made damn well sure that I was aware that Christmas was significant to him. And Sherlock doesn't do things that have no purpose. 

The bank manager humored me when I asked to speak with the employee who'd found the checks. He didn't know anything of value. The manager was less accommodating when I asked to view their security tapes. 

Which is why tonight, I am going to break in to view them myself.


	4. December 6:  Sherlock

12-06-2012  
21:36 (GMT)

Stupid. _Stupid!_ I should have known better. I _did_ know better! And like a fool I still allowed myself to be seen. Should have known he wouldn't be fooled by the longer, straightened, lightened hair, or the clothes, or the weight loss, or the total shift in demeanor that comes with every disguise. Should have known he'd see through everything and recognize me.

He has always seen straight to the core of me.

It was only a few hours ago. I had arranged a meeting with a network member--a man who had been a recruiter once, seeking out people with valuable talents and enlisting their services in whatever means necessary, usually blackmail and/or bribery. The meeting wasn't for some time, and I happened to be near Baker Street--

\--I may as well be honest with myself. I was deliberately lurking around Speedy's, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, to see what changes have taken place in him since I had been gone. I watched him approach the door of 221 on foot--taking the Tube, saving money; he shouldn't have needed to, he should have had access to my accounts in accordance with my will. Must determine if frugality is habit or Mycroft's influence; wouldn't put it past Mycroft to keep what is his from him. Can't have spent it all--not in keeping with his character. Then again, he has surprised me before.

No. Can find out about his spending habits once I am home. Until then, I must stay focused. I must not allow myself to be distracted just because the end of this is so close.

I watched him approach the door and knock. Not living there. No reason not to; he ought to be able to afford it. Too many memories, perhaps? I wonder what he's done with my things. He smiled at Mrs H, though he looked tired, and went inside.

He looked... all right. Tired, yes, and worn, and sad, but not heartbroken. Not grieving. Hopeful, even. That should have been a warning in itself, and I should have heeded it, but I didn't.

Instead I positioned myself outside the café, tucked discreetly into a nook where I could see the achingly familiar wood of the door to 221. I smoked to have something to do with my hands, to have a reason to be loitering.

He stayed in the building for twenty minutes: long enough for a cup of tea and a chat, not long enough for any significant catching up. Not the first visit in for some time, then; he's been by recently. Perhaps regularly. Possibly only stopped by for something specific, and was roped into staying for tea by Mrs H. Good. He ought to have someone looking after him, and she ought to have someone to look after.

Perhaps I ought to be offended that he doesn't grieve me. I'm not. I'm glad. Whether it's because he has had time to move on, or because he never cared enough in the first place (impossible; I saw him at my gravestone), or because he suspects the truth, I'm glad. I don't wish him hurt.

Well. Of course he suspects. He saw me, after all. I tailed him unseen to the Tube. The trains were crowded, early evening on a Thursday, and I was able to stand at one end of a car while he stood at the other. For several stops, he stared at the adverts and I stared at him.

He got off at Moorgate, and I followed. I intended to transfer, get back on a train going the opposite direction, return to the work of keeping him safe. But he saw me before our paths diverged.

I wanted to hold his gaze, wanted to go to him, wanted to go where he was going, wanted to talk to him, wanted to hear his voice. I couldn't. If I at all could, I had to make him think he was mistaken. So I ignored him, slouched, walked away as though I were in a hurry. We were still in the station, and the crowds worked to my advantage; I followed the thickest of them, stayed slouched (wasn't wearing my good coat), and took every corner I could. I heard him shout, once: my name. I ached.

I didn't dare look round until I'd made my way onto another platform. ~~I'd lost him.~~ He'd fallen behind, was no longer following me. Relief and loss in equal measures swirled through me. It wasn't yet time. I shouldn't have even been there for him to see. But it would be so easy, to approach him, confess, take him back home.

I made my meeting with the network recruiter. He was reluctant to talk--"No one's said _that_ name to me in over a year."--but eventually conceded (under heavy persuasion in the form of a blade against his throat) to inform me that, no, he hadn't been contacted by the network, and had eventually cut his losses ("They still owed me for the last job I did for them") and resumed solo work.

I spoke in a disguised voice, one that no one at the Yard would recognize--not even him, were L to share it, which he wouldn't, having no reason to--and left him handcuffed outside the Yard, the recording of our conversation tucked into a pocket. No longer a member of the network, but he had once been, and if they were to grow again, he would be instrumental. Cut him down before Moran contacted him, and leave Moran that much weaker.

Have still not heard a single whisper of Moran's whereabouts. Texted M: _Moran still in India?_ No response. Frustrating. Texted again: _He will target JW._

_JW is protected. Don't be an idiot._

That's all I'll get out of M tonight. Must sleep now. Wasted most of today, cannot afford to waste tomorrow. This sentimentality could be the death of him; I will not allow it to be.


	5. December 7: John

December 7,2012   
The break-in went very smoothly. 

I even used one of Sherlock's own designs on a battering ram—he'd left the plans behind, written down in a notebook in his room. We had talked about the project and it had been in development for some months before he left, and so once I'd deciphered his “notes”, it was easy enough to build. 

And, well, Sherlock would be proud to know that it worked quite nicely. All of his theories were perfect. The intense surge of electricity it emitted against the glass door caused an energy divergence within the power grid, effectively turning off the alarms and the video surveillance. The surge itself also weakened the glass so that it broke with the slightest push forward. I pulled off my mask so that I could breath, and stepped cleanly through. 

For four straight hours I sat in an office chair, rewinding all the tapes showing the office door that had been locked with the checks inside for so many months. There were four individuals who went in and out of the room in between the void date and the date I received them. Three females and one male, none of whom I recognized—I emailed screenshots of them to myself. 

I'm properly elated, as it's somewhere to start. I now have specific people to find and question regarding their business within the sealed office. I am, possibly, that much closer to finding him. Definitely closer than I have been at any other point during the last year and a half. 

I forgot, this morning, that I even did anything illegal. I was just pouring milk into my breakfast cereal, probably smiling like a lunatic imagining that all this might lead to seeing Sherlock again when the morning newscaster starts talking about the bank. A picture of the glass door I shattered is up on the television screen. 

“The branch manager has yet to report that anything has been stolen. Not even a single pound is unaccounted for. The security cameras caught nothing...” 

I don't hear any more after that, because I'm laughing so hard I can barely breath. I laugh and laugh, and when the news story finishes and I am quiet, I look around and am surprised not to see him there. It felt like he was, just for a moment. 

I decide that I am going to ask Mrs. Hudson about the letter from the bank. She did, after all, put it directly into my hands. I really didn't think she'd be hiding anything maliciously, though she would definitely hide something for Sherlock. 

“Oh, did I forget to mention that? Well, I thought it made more sense giving it to you, since he left you everything, the dear. And I didn't want to call that no account brother of his over a piece of mail he probably wouldn't have bothered to come over and pick up, anyway.” 

I assured her that that made plenty of sense to me. I avoid calling Mycroft at all costs. 

When I passed over the photos of the four individuals entering the office, she looked for a moment and then peered over them suspiciously at me. 

“Where did you get these, John?” 

I just smiled, and leaned forward a bit. “Do you recognize someone?”

She didn't. My heart fell, but I assured her that it was a matter of no consequence; that I'd just come across them going through some of your old notes, and had wondered. She pretended to buy it, but I could sense her worry shining through her congenial offer to stay for supper. I decided against it. Just entering in through the front doorway was enough to alter my mood. It's best I didn't linger. 

I was getting off the tube on my way home, thinking about all of your old case files and photographs. I had all of them in my hall closet, though it had been a while since I'd gone through them. I was planning on a nostalgic evening in, hoping to uncover another piece of the puzzle, when I saw you. 

Yes, you. Because this time wasn't like any of the other times, when I probably was just hallucinating because I hadn't slept, and I _wanted_ to see you. I'm still pretty sure I saw you on telly in Australia, but I'd be all right with admitting I was wrong about that. 

Those times weren't anything like this time. 

Your eyes, Sherlock. Do you honestly think I wouldn't recognize them? Wouldn't feel them burning a hole through my back? I turned toward the exit and you were standing there, against the flow of foot traffic, and even though you had weird long hair and were dressed like a homeless man, you are still _tall_. 

I could go on about your unique facial construction, but it'd be to no end, because we both know that I saw you, and that there is no denying it. 

You ran, and I followed, but you've always been the more agile between us. 

I guess I am writing to you, now. You've always read over my shoulder. It would annoy me and make me nervous whenever anyone else would do it, and even though I would act annoyed whenever you did it, I didn't mind. There's nothing I have ever felt particularly like hiding from you, and so no reason to worry. 

You don't feel that way about me. There's plenty you've kept me in the dark about. And I understand that. Compared to you, what am I? I know how big this is, how precisely it must all be done, and that I would only slow you down. 

Maybe you don't actually want me to find you. (Why the checks, then? Why now, so close to Christmas? Why get so close to me today?)

Even so, I won't quit. I'll find you. If only to be able to ask you why. I won't be able to find closure any other way, Sherlock. You owe me that much, at least. I don't have a life anymore outside of finding you, unveiling the truth, and proving to everyone else who used to be my friend that I am not crazy. That in and of itself would be nice. 

You must have known this would happen like this. It really pisses me off sometimes. In between bouts of really rather missing having you around. 

Is 8am. Haven't slept, yet. Think I'll sleep for a few hours, and spend the rest of the day looking through your top secret filing cabinet.


	6. December 8:  Sherlock

12-08-2012  
19:22

The fool. The mad, brilliant, wonderful fool. He took my plans--understood them better than I had thought he did at the time--built the device, and successfully employed it. The police are baffled. Not a thing taken, of course not--he's not looking for money. He's looking for me.

It's my fault. I shouldn't have let him see me. He won't get into trouble with the law for this--my device was too clever--but this kind of risks he's taking, he's putting himself in danger. Unnecessary danger.

He's certain, now, that I am alive. If there was any doubt in him before, it's gone now. Then he must know that I am coming back. He must have put it together. He isn't stupid. Christmas. I promised him Christmas. Has he put that together, too? He must have. Why can't he be content to wait, to stay safe?

Just for now. Just for a few more weeks. Then I'll take him on all the dangerous cases he wants. I'll get him into shootouts and car chases and fistfights. I'll get him into trouble and then save him, and I'll get myself in trouble and he'll save me. But not yet, ~~John,~~ not until after Christmas. Just a little while longer. I promise.

Must stop this sentimental nonsense. This journal is for recording my mission, not for sentiment. (Though admittedly that is in itself sentimental: I want to tell him about it, afterward. Can't do that if I've deleted it all--and can't finish the job without making space.)

Three texts from M today. First: _Ticket from India booked under name Sebastian Jones._ Second: _Landing Heathrow tomorrow, 1805._ Third: _Come stay at my house. It's perfectly safe--far more so than the home you're using an 'base of operations' now._

I look around. Base of operations: a flat in Chelsea, residents currently on vacation. Itinerary pinned to fridge indicates their return date as the twenty-seventh of December. I'll be gone by then. They won't even know I was here.

This family has no connection to me. Never visited my website. Never came to me with a case. Never, as far as I have been able to determine, had friends who sought my help. May have read his blog at some point; certainly saw the headlines eighteen months ago. The same could be said of everyone in London and many others besides. Were part of neither the "Moriarty was Real/I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" campaign, nor the "Richard Brook is Innocent" campaign. Probably don't remember my name. No reason for me to be here--thus, it is the perfect place for me to be.

M, on the other hand. Moran certainly has him under surveillance. Not round-the-clock, not unless he has some very well-placed moles among the staffs of the Palace and the Diogenes Club. M's habits would change if I were to stay with him. Inevitable. May as well put a beacon over my head.

May well do, if it comes to that. Divert Moran's attention to me, away from him. Not an advisable strategy, not yet. May not ever be. Moran may not want to kill me; may want instead to take away that which I care about. But would be out of character: I am Moran's target. He would be bait, a threat, leverage--a means, not an end.

Hurts to think about. Irrational. _Must_ consider every option. _Must_ predict Moran's options, the likelihood that he will choose each option. But it still hurts.

Why? Love? This can't be love, what I'm feeling. Love is meant to be easy: soft and sickeningly sweet. Music plays, there is a kiss, and happily ever after. This is a sharp, hard, hot feeling; fierce, and angry. It hurts. Nothing has ever hurt like this hurts.

Won't help to dwell. Must plan. Text M: _Get me a photo._

Text from M: _There are no photos._

Text M: _Make one. You've got the Secret Service and the entire intelligence division at your command._

Text from M: _Don't be petulant._ No guarantee, then. Might have a photo by tomorrow; might not.

Plan for both eventualities. With a photo, it will be easily done. Not enough evidence yet to convict him, certainly not for life, but an assassination might be feasible. He may be guarded. Unlikely; Moran prefers hands-on work. It's why he was such an apt companion to Moriarty. Will prefer to handle threats to his person himself. Plan for both eventualities anyway. If unguarded: tail him? Corner him in a loo? Too dependent on chance. Must get him alone. If guarded, the difficulty will lie in convincing the guards to leave him. If unguarded. difficulty will be in convincing Moran to leave public areas. (Moriarty took stupid risks. Moran does not.)

More difficult: if there is no photo. Might recognize him anyway: military always shows in bearing. Callouses on his hands will be indicative of a sniper rifle, but might not be able to get close enough. If guarded, might stand out; might simply appear to be travelling in a group. He has the advantage on me; my picture is readily available.

Too many variables. Not enough time. Plan for worst-case scenario: M doesn't get me a picture, and Moran is guarded. How will I recognize him? Can't think of anything foolproof. May have to trust to luck. Hate the thought; luck cannot be trusted. Fickle, unpredictable thing, luck.

Could think of something if he were here to listen. He would ask a stupid question, or point out the obvious or obviously wrong, and prompt a connection I couldn't have made otherwise. Sometimes I think I ought to have taken him with me. Would the additional risk to his life be worth the lubrication of my thought process?

No. Because this mission would not risk only his life. There are things I've done, things I can't delete, things I have not written down here. He is a man of contradictions, a puzzle and an endless surprise, and I am sure of little where he is concerned, but this much I am sure of: He is a good man. He is the best man I have ever known. I cannot let him be tainted by the actions this mission has called for.


	7. December 10:  Sherlock

December 10, 2012  
02:12

Much to write, not much time. In the car on the way to find him. Hands shaking. I'm afraid, and this is no false chemical fear.

Went to meet Moran at Heathrow. He was guarded. Trying to look like a group of tourists, failing. Moran was too central, too obviously deferred to. It was easy to corner him in the toilet, inject him with tranquilizers, drag him into a supply closet. No one saw.

It was too easy, maybe.

Stole a wheelchair. Wheeled him to the kerb. Car waiting--M's work, hated to ask, but needed to. Swallowed pride for his sake. Driver took us to one of M's places--not what I'd asked for, but useful enough.

Won't record exactly what I did. Not something I need to remember. Not something I want to tell him about. But I did, and I did it myself, and that much he should know.

It took a long time. Most of the night, in fact. He wasn't keen on talking. But he eventually confessed: he wasn't Moran. Moran had been in London for days already. It was all a diversion, designed to lure me away.

Away from him.

God help me, I don't even know where he is. He might be at home, or at work, or Tesco's, or even Baker Street. I don't know.

 

02:24  
M's security team reports he entered his flat several hours ago and hasn't emerged, but that proves nothing. Moran could already have been inside. Hands still shaking. Almost there.

 

04:19  
Still shaking. Only now noticed: there is blood on my hands. Smudged across the notebook's pages. The blood of the man Moran sent to distract me. It almost worked.

Arrived at his flat; car dropped me at the end of the street and vanished. His silhouette, clear in the window: light behind him. Could see him moving, sorting papers across a table, stopping to read now and again. Paying bills, perhaps, or still searching for me. So familiar, even at a distance, even in silhouette. He was relaxed, calm; he was not aware of any threat.

Empty building across the way. Tiny flash at one window: light reflecting off glass. Climbed through backyards to approach from a different direction; couldn't have Moran seeing me approach. The same went for hearing; I took off my shoes at the back door and crouched, listening.

Only for a moment. Moran was almost certainly assembling his weapon, if he hadn't already finished. He might take his shot any second.

Sneaking through an unfamiliar house in the dark and the silence: not easy. A stair creaked under my foot. I winced, expecting a gunshot, but none came: only utter stillness.

When I got to the top, Moran was waiting for me. He had positioned himself with his face in shadow, but I could see that he was tall, unshaven, thickly built and muscular.

"You've caused me a lot of problems, Holmes."

"Likewise, Moran."

He jerked his head toward the window. "Nice of you to drop by. Come to watch him die?"

"I came to watch _someone_ die," I said.

"Not me," he said, and bent sideways, his hand fitting awkwardly around the rifle. I saw what he meant to do and leapt forward, kicking the gun sideways just as the shot went off.

The sound of the shot echoed with the sound of shattering glass. Icy fear gripped me, and I shoved the gun away so that I could look out the window.

He stood at his window, the curtains open, mouth agape. Alive. I nearly sagged with relief, and turned--

The room was empty. No gun. No Moran. I swore under my breath, and took one last look back out the window at him before making my way down, and out. I couldn't join the growing crowd of gawkers outside John's flat, no matter how well the crowd would disguise me, because he'd see me and he would know. So I skulked away, barely avoiding being seen. I had just stepped into M's car when the police arrived, sirens blaring.

Text M: _There's a hole in the protection around JW._

Text from M: _It's already being taken care of._

He's alive, this time. I cling to that fact. He is still alive. He knows I'm alive. He must know I'm coming back. And now he knows why I am not already back: because his life is in danger.

John. Please be careful. Please.


	8. December 11th: John

December 11th, 2012  
Early

I had been looking through bank records; internet ones, ones commandeered from the library's dusty files, and a long list of all the bank's current and former employees from the last year and a half. I'd uncovered three of the four mystery people in two and a half days. Two tellers and a shift manager, all without major criminal records or any obvious connection to Sherlock. Still worth having a conversation with, of course, but it was the fourth mystery person, the last mystery _woman_ , as far as I could tell from the footage, who interested me most of all. I had a definitive lead. 

I was feeling pretty good about my deductive skills when I heard the gunshot from the house next door. 

I dropped to the floor, removed my loaded gun from its hidden location beneath the table, and crawled toward the window. All I could see in my mind was the expression on Sherlock's face just as he fell, his eyes boring into me, and all I could imagine was that everything had been for nothing. I'd lost him again. 

It only took me a couple of seconds to cross to the window, but it felt like an eternity.

When I looked out the window, my gun hidden, I could just barely make out the silhouette of a man through the glass. He was tall and thin, but he disappeared before I could catch a glimpse of his face. 

It could have been anyone. It could have been him. Would he honestly have gotten this close again without letting me know? (Of course you would. You clearly didn't want me to see you in the tunnel on the underground.) Checking up on me, then? Why? 

Sherlock doesn't do anything without a good reason. And so it logically follows that there _is_ a good reason he was there. Trailing a sniper on my tail, perhaps. Or trailing someone else who was there. Because someone else _was_ definitely there. Someone who didn't like him, or vice versa, or both. 

But who got who, in the end? 

(Gods, Sherlock. You have no idea the fear.) 

  


I stowed my gun in my coat and ran down the stairs, joining the rest of my building's inhabitants on the lawn awaiting the oncoming sirens. I shoved my way toward the front porch of the house as Lestrade and his crew, some of them new faces, arrived on the scene. They were up the stairs and bursting through the front door in an instant, with an inferior cousin of Sherlock's creation. 

I debated for a moment, but there was no real question. I pushed past the guns on the front porch quite easily, the ones who remembered me jumping out of my way on reflex, and I confronted Lestrade in the living room. 

“This your division, is it?” 

Lestrade's heavily armed crew were searching the house, some heading up the stairs, some throwing open doors to dusty linen cabinets and coat closets. He stared at me in disbelief. 

“John?” 

I stood my ground. “Since when do random gunshots in Peckham bring your team in from across town in minutes?” 

“What are you doing in Peckham?” 

“I live next door. Now _how did you know_?” 

For the first time Lestrade seems to remember who I am, or at least what I became to him, leading him on what must have seemed like many wild goose chases, causing him a lot of time and money and damages and injuries to his staff. All for nothing. 

He'd only grown cross with me at first, but then I wasn't allowed in his office to speak with him as he was always very busy, and then I wasn't allowed to enter the premises at all. Lestrade had come to 221b while I had still lived there, telling me that I needed to stop, or else he would have me arrested, committed, or both. 

Lestrade no longer believed in him. He'd just given up. My word wasn't enough. (It shouldn't have been.)

“We had a—an anonymous tip off,” Lestrade had announced, looking very ruffled. “How did you get in here?” 

I raised an eyebrow. “Your men still remember me, Greg. And so you are aware, I really don't believe that this is coincidence.” He almost argued but I cut him off. “I just want to know... what you find. That's it, I just want to know, and then I'll leave you alone.” 

He is frowning at me, trying to make sense of it all and come to a decision at the samet ime, when one of his men arrives at his side. 

“A bullet hole through the hardwood floor in the second bedroom. No body, no blood. Clean house. Electricity is off, so we're having a hard time checking for prints. We need to send for the floodlights back at base.” 

Lestrade nods. “All right. Make the call, Rand.” 

He directs his attention back to me, but I have already turned away, heading for the door. I'll keep my end of the bargain. At least until I have something to show him that he won't be able to doubt. 

I tried sleeping afterward, but it didn't come easily. I just kept seeing him in the darkness through two panes of glass and across a yard, even though I hadn't officially seen him. I didn't see his coat, I didn't see his eyes. It could have been him, but it could have been a great deal of men. 

If not you, Sherlock, if not you... 

If another Christmas passes like the last, I'm not sure I'll be able to carry on with it another year. If I really am hallucinating and have been wrong about everything thus far, I am going to have to give you up.

I miss you. I wish I didn't have to be a liability to you. 

I don't believe I am wrong in this, not this time. But I have been wrong before, and that scares me more than anything. That's what keeps me searching. If I can prove it to myself, once and for all, I can relax (or whatever) until Christmas rolls around. 

Just let me see see you. As yourself. For even just a split second, as long as it's really real. We don't even have to speak. I just want to know you're okay. I don't mind not knowing all that you know, Sherlock. What I want is relatively simple. To most people it would make sense. I just want you safe, and I want my sanity back. 

What does it mean to you? Why were you having a gunfight outside my living room window? Sherlock? 

We've really got to start doing something about these all-nighters.


	9. December 12:  Sherlock

12-12-2012  
23:11

No leads on Moran. M has doubled the protection around him. Permanent detachment in the empty house next door. M sent a man to see about renting 221c, offering an obscene amount of money for a damp basement; Mrs H will be fine. Protection for L trickier; I don't know what M has in place. But L is not Moran's target.

Can't focus. Terrified. Have never been this frightened, not over such a stretch of time. Moran _won._ He must have been seconds from pulling the trigger when he heard my step on the stair. He could have made his shot and run, and I'd never have seen him, and  he would be

No. Can _not_ think that way. Distracting! Fear never helped anybody. Must focus on finding Moran. Didn't see his face. Saw his hands: gun callouses. Distinctive scar across the back of the left hand. Saw his clothes. Dark grey (not black, only an amateur wears black), loose, shapeless. Indistinctive. No style that might identify him later, except for "experienced killer"--not a style we're likely to see him in during the day. Saw his shoes. Trainers. Not new. Might be his. More likely, picked up from a secondhand store, discarded after the fact. Many people have his body type. Nothing I saw would identify him, except the scar on his hand.

Hacked his blog. Wasn't hard. His passwords are all too easy to guess. This one, unforgivably sentimental: _ibelieveinsherlockholmes_.

Looked in drafts. Looked in private posts. Checked the host server's cache for deleted posts. Nothing new. Thought perhaps he'd have kept writing. If he has, he hasn't put it online. It may be stored locally, but if it is, I can't access it. Not from this computer, found in the daughter's bedroom (young teen, perhaps thirteen. Dating another girl. Her parents think they're simply close friends. Girl needn't fear backlash from the mother; she dated several women in her twenties and thirties).

Maybe it would be better simply to go home. Explain everything. He can better protect himself if he understands the threat. I can better protect him if I'm with him. He could help.

Can't risk it. He's probably angry. Might not listen. Storm off. Put himself in more danger.

Might listen. Follow me. Put himself in more danger trying to help.

No. No. He has to stay safe. He is safest where he is. I'll risk his anger later, once his life is saved. Less than two weeks now till Christmas. Thirteen days. I can do this. I _will_ do this.

No purpose in disguise any longer. Cut my hair yesterday. Won't try to dye the blond out; it'll come back in on its own anyway. Feels strange to be without the extra weight. Feels good, though. Feel more like myself. Look in the mirror across the room and it looks like me, as it hasn't since I left.

I want my violin. I don't know where it is. In storage probably. But I need to think, and the nicotine patches aren't cutting it anymore. In the eighteen months I've been away, I've had not a single chance to play. Have composed, in my head, memorized them. A few are written down, saved; they have all been deleted to make room for more important data. It's a loss, I admit.

There's only one other thing I can think of to help clear my mind. I don't like to do this--it's vulgar, and leaves me feeling empty and alone--but the moment seems to call for it. Just close my eyes and think of him, think of his eyes, his smile. The sound of his voice. His hands: steady, capable of both great strength and incredible finesse. The way he tilts his head to one side. The shape of his shoulders. His skin. His lips. His mouth...

Yes. That's what I need. And then I'll be able to think.


	10. December 13: John

December 13th

I really did mean to head in to the bank today to request chat sessions with the employees, just to feel like I was being productive, even though I am fairly certain it is the mystery woman I want to speak with. 

But I woke up with the flu. 

Not the sniffly, sneezy, achy kind of flu, but the grosser version that requires garbage cans or toilets to be in the immediate vicinity at all times. I can only hope it's the 24 hour sort of bug. 

I've been in bed all day, feeling useless. Knowing that if another sniper were to appear in the archway of my bedroom door, I would not even have the strength or mental cognitive ability to reach for my firearm in time. 

I fell into a dangerous daydream, then. What if I were taking one of my intermittent power naps between trips to the bathroom, and didn't hear the sniper being strangled silently in the living room? Sherlock's doing, of course. 

Feverishly I believe he can't be far. Not after the events of the other night. 

And then he would be the one standing in the archway. Watching me sleep. I'd wake when he took a step inside because my floorboards are so creaky. Blearily I'd see him. My heart would race, and I'd sit up in bed, rising from my horizontal position for the first time all day for a reason unrelated to being sick. 

I wouldn't say anything, and neither would he. We'd both understand. I would just look at him. 

His mess of dark curls, a streak of gray that begins behind his left ear. (Matching the one I have developed on the right.) The dark blue coat he always wore, though this would be a new one, because his old one was destroyed when he fell. (I wonder, in the part of my mind that is grounded in reality, what happened to it.) His eyes that appear soulless to people like Sally Donovan, who could never understand the careful, calculated beauty of them, watching me, appearing softer and deeper and lighter than I have ever seen them. 

They are how I know for certain that it was Sherlock I saw on the platform. 

I am not crazy. I am delusional because I am sick as a dog at the moment, but there was nothing wrong with me that day. 

My mind-Sherlock would smile, and it would be unrelated to any case, as most of his smiles I've been witness to have been. He would set a small golden bell, bedazzled in glitter and sequence, on my bedside table. There would be a hook attached to it. An ornament for Christmas tree. I don't have a Christmas tree, not this year, but the meaning of it is clear.  
  
I opened my eyes and he wasn't there, of course. I knew he wouldn't be. There wasn't even a sniper. There wasn't even a sound. It's midday, and everyone in my building is at work or school. I feel vaguely nauseous now, but I decide to just yawn widely, and put off the inevitable if only for another 15 minutes. 

Tomorrow I will go next door, see if there is anything to be seen in the house next door. 

Then maybe I will go visit Molly. See if she recognizes the woman in the picture. I won't tell her anything else about it. I'll keep it light. I know how upset she gets. 

The inevitable calls. 

  
  


 


	11. December 14:  Sherlock

12-14-2012  
10:57

Report from M. No one has approached the empty building since the confrontation four days ago. No other leads. Responded asking for more information, specifically regarding him. M responded predictably, with a snide "You didn't want this information before."

Replied, _The game has changed and you know it._

Text from M: _JW sick in bed. Not life-threatening. Hasn't left his home in two days. Not kidnapped, not missing: an agent checked on him this morning. Actually sick in bed. Moran hasn't come near._

Replied, _That you know of._ Then turned mobile off. No point arguing with him. It's not like I know any better.

Tempted to go and see him. He'll be sleeping, possibly delirious with fever. Might not remember me. Might think it a dream. For a doctor, he's a terrible patient; he won't be hydrating properly, won't be eating to keep up his strength. I could make him tea. Heat soup on the stove for him. Let him think he did it himself while groggy and half-asleep. Tuck blankets around his shoulders. Watch over him as he sleeps.

The idea has strong appeal, though it's completely irrational. No, I can't go to him, not yet. As long as he stays in his flat, he'll be safe. My visiting him might disrupt his safety, even if he did write it off as a fevered dream.

Still. It's a nice thought.

13:42

Hacked into the computer of one of Moran's underlings. Even the little I've managed to decode is enough to send several men to prison. Copied it all onto a thumb drive; will decode the rest later.

Nothing concrete yet on Moran in this data. Several references to him--to his code name--but no information on his location. A location is all I need. I don't need to see him in prison, I don't need to see him convicted. I can cover my own tracks, and M will cover for me if necessary.

I don't need Moran alive. I just need him out of my way.

Of course, M would prefer we bring him in alive. Find out everyone he's worked with, bring them in as well. Getting Moran alive would be almost as beneficial to the Crown as Moriarty's death was. But I don't particularly care what M prefers; Moran's threat would be as much eliminated if he were dead as imprisoned. More so, in fact; there may be prisons that never have been broken out of, but that doesn't mean they never will be broken out of.

19:53

Was rather forcibly reminded to eat when I stood up an hour ago and had to immediately sit back down or risk losing consciousness. I miss him. He was useful, yes: reminded me to eat and sleep so that I wouldn't have to remember, so that I could use that space for other things. But it wasn't the extra space I missed--a tiny fraction of a percent, negligible really--but the reminders. A clear sign, in the way that so little is clear nowadays, that he cared for me. I didn't see his nagging for what it was, then. I see it clearly now. ~~Joh~~

I've avoided using his name. I have, as much as I've been able, avoided even thinking his name. Early in this mission, I had his voice in my head to tell me to eat and to sleep at regular intervals. (Though not as regular as he would have deemed necessary, I'm sure.) It was a comfort, a piece of home I carried with me. I talked to him in those days. Aloud, when I could; silently more often. I shared everything with him, with the ghost of him I had built up in my brain. But it wasn't real, and it became more of a distraction then a help. No great danger came of it before I stopped, but there's a new scar on my thigh to tell of what could have happened.

So I don't use his name. It's a temptation, a distraction I cannot afford. Especially not now. Eleven days until my self-imposed deadline, until Christmas. It was sentimental of me, yes, and perhaps unforgivable of me to have left him a clue. But where he is concerned, I find myself rather more tolerant of sentimentality.

I suppose it will be up to him to forgive me.


	12. December 16:  Sherlock

12-16-2012  
18:28

Have spent days decoding this data. Have been reporting to M; M, presumably, has been directing the police. In most cases, anyway; I'm certain some of the criminals I'm uncovering are being taken care of quietly by the Secret Service. Slight uptick in the number of arrests made over the last few days; nothing statistically significant, but newspapers have been making news of it anyway. Ridiculous--it's hardly a _spree_. And it's not the police who should be praised; it's me.

Don't care. Doesn't matter. The last of Moran's network is crumbling around him. Counterfeiters, embezzlers, assassins, kidnappers. I decode the data, make connections, come to conclusions. Pass my conclusions to M. M arranges the arrests, and inevitably, there is more data.

It's satisfying, in its way. Feels like progress. Just might make it home by Christmas after all. (Nine days.) Finding tiny clues as I go. A job done in Islington, finished at 1600; report made in person at headquarters fifteen minutes later. Gives me roughly a five-mile diameter area centered on Islington to search. Better than all London. Another reference to a sale made in the Olympic park. Report made ten minutes later. Narrows the area further: somewhere roughly between Hackney and Mile End.

Not particularly interesting work, nor particularly challenging. Would have given it up as tedious, were there not so much at stake. But it is satisfying. Marking borders on my maps, zooming in to narrower and narrower fields. Will have it down to a radius of a few blocks by the end of the day. Back to field work tomorrow, probably: staking out the area, rekindling old connections with the homeless network.

I worry about him. M reports his illness fading; he still didn't leave his flat today, but surveillance says he's moving around, no longer bedbound. I want to _see_ him, see with my own eyes that he's all right. I want to make him all right, if I can, want to bring him food and blankets and tea. Want to read to him, softly, something soothing that will help him sleep. Want to let him sleep with his head in my lap, want to stroke his hair. Want to touch his face, his skin. Want to

No. Damn it, this isn't helping. This is what happens when I let my body's demands rule me. They get out of control, and I lose focus. I can't afford this distraction.


	13. December 18: Sherlock

12-18-2012  
17:32

This time, at least, it was an accident. I didn't seek him out, and I didn't follow him.

I saw him in Mile End this time. Completely unrelated (probably. Or possibly not; SHE lived nearby. If he'd been at my bank doing what I thought he'd been doing, he may well be searching for her) (not going to mention what it cost me to get her to do that favor for me. Suffice to say, it wasn't money), but there he was, standing at the street corner, waiting for the light to change.

He might not have noticed me, if I hadn't reacted. I stopped, stared. I was startled! I hadn't expected him to have any business here. It was that, I think, that made him look at me; if I'd kept my head down and kept walking, I'd have been lost among the sea of pedestrians.

I froze up for a moment. Unforgivable; such a freeze would have gotten me killed had it happened in other circumstances. I blame sentiment: I wanted to go to him, even though I knew I ought to leave him behind.

M was, as much as I hate to admit it, right about one thing: Caring is not an advantage.

I froze up, and watched as he recognized me. I was close enough to see the way his brow furrowed, and then I turned and ran.

He was a soldier, well-used to physical exertion, but it had been a year and a half since he'd run with me down London streets, and I had spent most of that time running. Still, it took me far longer than it should have to lose him. Truthfully, I didn't _want_ to lose him; I wanted to stop, I wanted to let him catch me. 

"Sherlock!" he shouted. And then again: " _Sherlock!_ "

Yes, John. Alert the entire street to my presence, why don't you. I certainly have no reason to be covert, no, not even a bit. The fool. The stubborn, beautiful, essential, brilliant fool.

News stories tomorrow, probably. The news hasn't been kind to him since I left; he's been looking for me, all this time. At first the called him crazy, deluded by a fake genius. Some papers supposed that he had been in league with me and my deceptions. Then they grew bored of him. Eventually, the truth--that I _couldn't_ have arranged the crimes they accused me of--came out, very quietly, buried in the sections of the paper no one ever reads. Heaven forbid the newspapers ever be wrong about something. They still weren't kind to him then; I was called mad, eccentric (which I am), and he was pitied and looked down on.

Now he will probably be deluded again. Searching for a man who died over a year ago. Chasing him down streets where he couldn't possibly be. Or perhaps Mycroft will suppress the stories; if Moran reads an article about him chasing me down Mile End, he won't think him deluded; he'll think, rightly, that I am about to find him.

Finally I shook him off and returned to my borrowed flat, my surveillance for today ruined. One week left until Christmas. I am so close to success; Moran has almost no one with him anymore, only a few hired thugs. I dare not hope I might return before Christmas Day; that is too much to ask for. But I _will_ be home on Christmas.

I will. I promised.


	14. December 19: John

December 19th, 2012

I'd been much sicker for much longer than I'd imagined. I tossed and turned for days that felt like years, freezing and feverish and sweating through the first couple of days in near delirium. Honestly, it was better than most of the drugs I'd taken in my youth. The professional grade meds I administered to myself didn't dim the experience, either. 

Sherlock made his way into my bedroom inside my head more times than I can count. I dreamed about it at night and I daydreamed about it while in many a haze during the day. Each forced and imagined scenario seemed more desperate than the last to my addled brain. When I was beginning to feel slowly, incrementally better, I stopped daydreaming about Sherlock waltzing in and started daydreaming about tracking him down, barging in on him myself, and demanding an explanation for all of it. 

I know you don't do anything without good reason, Sherlock. Is that my mantra now? I repeat it to myself often enough. I just have to believe that there's something beyond my level of understanding at work here, something I couldn't have helped you with, something you needed to keep me out of completely. ( _So_ fucking _completely. Why, Sherlock?_ ) Though I'll have a level of doubt until I can look into your eyes for more than a nanosecond, I am almost certain you are alive, and that you've been near me, conducting whatever business it is that you are conducting. I know I'll get to hear an explanation someday, but I can't stop imagining what I might possibly say back to you on that day. 

And when I finally got out of bed with the ability to stay out of it, it was with hardened, determined anger creeping into my heart. You called me your friend. You called me your _only friend_ , Sherlock, and I don't believe you've ever spoken words that were harder for you to say. You admitted it, but grudgingly. Maybe you just admitted it for me. Maybe it really wouldn't matter to you one way or the other whether you had me for a friend or not. What other conclusion can I come to, given the facts? I feel like I am losing my mind, and if I am, it would come as a surprise to absolutely no one. You have no room for doubt in yourself, but you forget that others don't have that natural ability, least of all me. I can't trust myself or my judgment, only you. 

I despise it, because it means you've risen to a godlike, undeniable status in my brain somewhere. You're hardwired in. I even believe in you subconsciously. Knowledge of and trust in you has taken refuge in the root, the very base, of my brain tissue and every thought of you brings every possible emotion to the foreground. Anger. Awe. Denial. Conviction. Bitterness. Love. Grief. Love. Desire. Love. Love. Anger. Love.

And... I am worth more than this kind of impossible existence. I deserve to know the truth. If you don't know that, then you need to know that I know that, and that I don't want to play this kind of game anymore. 

Yesterday was the first day I was able to look through the photos of the people from the bank, again. I'd only been able to eye them angrily as I walked by my desk, sipping tea in my bathrobe. But as soon as my mental capabilities were back in the game and not hovering, tortured, over the toilet, I sat down to look through them once again. 

I looked at the photo of the fourth person, the mystery woman, and I noticed a reflection the glass. I'd been so focused on the human figure that I hadn't noticed it before. I held the photo to the light, but it wasn't clear enough to make out. 

In the bedroom I found my laptop shoved under the bed. It had been dead for days. I plugged it in and turned it on, my knee bouncing anxiously as I waited for it to reboot. I went immediately to the files containing the photographs and I zoomed in and cleared up the image of the woman's reflection, waiting again as the changes I made went into effect. 

And in the reflection I could make out the dangling earrings that you gave to Molly one Christmas that seems too long ago. I picked them out. I looked at the figure again and all at once I recognized the coat, the gait, the particular curl of the hair. Suddenly and so obviously, it was Molly. 

I was dumbfounded. Molly knew. She'd been helping you all this time. She hadn't been upset about losing you when I asked her questions, she'd been nervous about slipping up. 

What could you possibly have said to persuade Molly to do this and who knows what else for you? And why did you think you could ask her, Sherlock, if you couldn't ask me? Why play this game with me instead? 

I dressed in under a minute and headed out the door toward Molly's flat in Mile End. At least I hoped she still lived there; I hadn't been there in years. The last time was with you. 

I stepped out of the taxi in Mile End and crossed the street, making my way east. And then there you were. 

You obviously didn't expect me to be there; your eyes weren't already on me when I caught them. You hadn't been _watching_ me without my knowledge. Not this time. I caught you off guard. Something in my heart rejoiced. 

I was running toward you before you started running from me, but even so, you began widening the distance between us almost instantly. Damn you and your long legs. Damn my weak and damaged immune system, and damn the twinge in my knee causing me to favor the other leg and slow down. Damn the stitch in my side growing with every stride, and _damn you, Sherlock Holmes._

I was in an alley when it became obvious you'd lost me again. I stopped running and leaned my back against cold bricks, burying my face in my hands. I had no idea where I'd followed you to, but before I could take stock of my surroundings I heard the distinct sound of flip flops hitting the pavement and a woman's labored breathing. I turned, and there was Molly Hooper still in her nightgown, her hair all out of sorts, and her eyes determined. She was carrying a semi-automatic weapon, though she wasn't aiming it at me. She also wasn't looking at me, but beyond me. I turned, but there was no one, nothing. Just the cars rushing passed at the other end of the alley. "Molly? Where's-" 

“Follow me. Now.” I'd never seen Molly so serious, so sure of herself. She turned to head back the way she'd come, and I pushed away from the wall, acknowledging several painful blisters I'd acquired from my run, and followed her. 

“Will you tell me what's going on?” I wasn't pleading, or begging, or demanding. I was too tired for any of that, and none of it had worked for me in the past. My par for the course tone made her stop and turn back to look at me with narrowed eyes. 

“You were being followed. Or perhaps he was. Mycroft called me and told me to find you. I was the closest.” 

My mouth was hanging open, though I shut it promptly. “ _Mycroft_ called you? Are you all in on it together, then? Sherlock's secret club?” My voice was rising, and my heart was starting to pound more furiously than it had been when I'd been running after you. 

Pity entered her gaze, and I turned furiously away from it. “John, just follow me. Please. We're not safe here. John, _move!_ ”  
I turned, but it was too late. A red hot pain on the right side of my head, accompanied by a sound louder than any I'd ever heard before, and then nothing. 

I woke up at dawn presumably the next day, today, the 19th, in a room I'd never been in before. Small but lavish, with a King size bed taking up most of the space. Lots of dark wooden furniture, lots of dark green accents. I raised a hand to my head and felt stitches and pain and so I lowered my hand again, moaning. Everything hurt. 

Almost everything on my desk and my bedside table has been brought to this room, with a door locked from the outside. My journal, laptop, glasses, and robe are all accounted for. There is nothing left to do but wait. 

For you. For something. For _anything._


	15. December 20:  Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When this is over, I will sleep for a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Continuing last year's abandoned Advent? Shhhhhh. You're imagining things.

12-20-2012  
13:21

I have been in motion for two days. Forty-eight solid hours.

When this is over, I will sleep for a week.

Began with a text from M, just as I finished writing the last entry in this journal: _JW shot._

Demanded details, of course. A graze along the side of his head, just after I left him behind in Mile End. SHE was there, sent by Mycroft; was, of course, more interested in stopping his bleeding than in finding the shooter.

I find I cannot fault her priorities. And Moran has no reason to want her dead; perhaps her presence saved John from a second shot. (On the other hand, Moran has no reason to want her alive--and his first shot shouldn't have missed. He was standing still.) She is competent under pressure, and M sent a car--a car, not an ambulance. She got him into the car, and M took him into _M's own home._

So of course I went to interrogate her about what she saw, and crawled all over the alley where it happened--shouldn't have, dangerous, but I cannot trust anyone to see the really important things. I was not shot at; I found no clues. In short, a useless waste of time.

Then I went to see him. M in person is even more insufferably smug and condescending than I remembered. He was unconscious. Pale. Too thin.

I touched his hair. I wanted to do more, to wake him and explain everything and speak to him. I did not. 

He is safest, now, here under M's protection. I owe M much, and I hate it, but he is _alive_ and so it is worth it, it is all worth it. I will rejoice in every tedious, aggravating, or humiliating moment of paying M back if it means that  he is alive.

"Is there any advantage left in keeping yourself hidden?" M asked as I left his room. "There are no secrets left. He knows you're alive. Moran knows you're alive. Moran knows that he knows you're alive. What benefit is there in hiding?"

I pride myself on my rationality, but where he and M are concerned, my logic is compromised in two vastly different ways. "Tell him nothing," I said. "Keep him here. Keep him safe."

It was early on the nineteenth when I left M's house. I was _vicious_ ; I played all my cards, used all my tricks, cornered the last of Moran's known associates. I would have finished it then, but Moran...

Moran was the true genius of Moriarty's organization. Moriarty had style, had flair, had ideas, but without Moran he'd have been nothing but a frivolously criminal sociopath, a small-time serial killer like any other. Moran made the machine; he maintained the connections, made the plans, ensured that Moriarty's ideas would function in the real world. Moran was not an underling but an invisible partner.

Moran was too good for me. He hosts a poker game every week, his organization is _dead_ , and still I couldn't find him. Late on the morning of the twentieth, I returned to M's home, failure heavy on my shoulders, and prepared to face him for the first time.

"Come home with your tail between your legs, dear brother," M said, as I stood outside his door waiting to be ready to go in.

"This is hardly home, Mycroft," I rejoined, though it was not a cutting witticism; my tail was between my legs.

Finally I entered the room simply to get away from Mycroft. All sound from the hallway cut off, entirely and instantly, as the door fell shut behind me, ~~and he was~~

~~He looked~~

~~He~~

I ought to use his name, now. I don't think I can write about what happened. He was furious with me, of course, and I sport a new bruise on my cheek. ~~He clutched me and~~ There may have been tears. ~~Some may have been m~~

It was a relief. He does not forgive me, and I never expected his forgiveness. He is asleep now, and I am across the room, listening to him breathe simply because he is breathing. Moran's poker game is tomorrow, and we will infiltrate it, he and I, _together_. Moran will know who we are. He will want us both dead. We will want him dead more.

It will be over. 

I need to sleep. It's been too long, and I did not know how tired I was. There is a couch in this room, though there wasn't one when I was here two days ago; it's long enough that my feet don't hang over the edge. John won't mind. He'd prefer it if I stayed close, in fact.

At least, I hope so.

It does feel almost like home, with John nearby.


	16. December 21: John

December 21st, 2012

I was kept in the room for one whole day before I saw him. 

Kept is a harsh word. I didn't want to go anywhere for several reasons, the lesser reasons being that I'd been shot at and was still recovering from a nasty flu bug. The bed was like a silk cocoon of feathers that was not unpleasant in the least. A maid who did not speak English brought me food on a silver serving dish and a change of clothes. I was comfortable. 

But mostly, the fact that I was obviously in Mycroft Holmes' house, and on purpose, kept me from angling to leave; more importantly, I was in Sherlock's childhood home, and that was significant. That meant I wasn't crazy. There was a reason I was here. I wasn't wrong. Some line had been crossed. Something was going to happen now. 

Something just had to. I didn't think I could do it anymore on my own. 

There was a small bathroom attached to my room that the maid had pointed out to me the first time she'd brought me food the day before. I was just entering the bedroom again after having gotten dressed after my morning shower, and I noticed him entering the bedroom from the (presumable) hallway at exactly the same time. 

For a long moment, we were frozen. 

I didn't expect him to remain still long enough for me to get a good look at him, so I barely registered the changes in his appearance. The recent haircut that removed most of his curl. The new worry lines that creased his forehead, and the bit of gray that began at his temple and defied even the horrid blond dye that still clung to the ends of his hair. The strange clothes. I'd never seen Sherlock wear jeans or a hooded sweatshirt, not even expensive ones like these, not even when they clung to his form like a second skin and accentuated all of the weight he'd lost. 

No, of course I saw those things, I cataloged them for later, but my primary focus was staring him down, daring him to run from me, even as I half expected him to disappear in a cloud of smoke. 

All those words I'd prepared. I couldn't recall any of them. I couldn't bring myself to demand an explanation. Why was he so silent? How could he continue on in this silence, this blankness, this nothingness that he'd left me in? How could he still be willing to perpetuate it, when he was right here?

He was less than ten feet away from me, and before I knew what I was doing I was moving closer, closer, until I was right in front of him. His eyes were widening and then my fist connected with his cheekbone. It hurt me more than it hurt him, probably. 

I sank to the floor, my shoulder leaning against the mattress as I held my fist tightly to my chest. 

Sherlock wasn't in my line of sight any longer and I felt a familiar pain in my leg, a pain that wasn't real, a pain that my doctor brain understood was compensating for something else, something I wasn't dealing with properly. Couldn't deal with properly. 

My eyes sought his person with a kind of desperation I knew he would not mistake for anything but what it was. The pain eased when my eyes locked onto his, but it was still dormant. It was still going to be a problem. It was maybe always going to be a problem, where Sherlock was concerned. 

Then Sherlock was on the floor sitting beside me. “John,” he uttered lowly, and it was his voice, that familiar tone vibrating through me once again. “John, I-” 

“Shut up,” I interrupted, my voice shaking. “No. No. Please don't make any _excuses_ to me right now. Please don't explain. I need time. I-” I was trembling everywhere, and I was going to cry. To attempt to keep it from happening would only prolong it. 

He reached out to take my fist, still red and tingling from its contact with his slowly bruising face, and he held it gently between both hands. “I was only going to ask if you were well enough to accompany me tomorrow.” He cleared his throat. “In the field. To put an end to it, once and for all. You and I, John.” 

I looked at him, and could only nod. His light eyes intensified in agreement and understanding, and it was the first time in years that I didn't feel alone in my intentions or thoughts. No one had ever understood me before Sherlock. And no one else took me seriously without him. Did it matter? ( _Only if I had to be alone. Only if I couldn't be by his side._ )

“Don't do this again. I'd rather die,” I find myself admitting, and then I am lost. I don't remember consciously choosing to pull Sherlock into an embrace, but he's suddenly in my arms and he's got his arms around me and his ridiculous sweatshirt is wet. He's probably going to catch my flu. 

We don't talk about reasons or motivations. I know that conversation is still to be had, but not until it is done. Not until we can put whatever this all is behind us for good. We talk basic logistics regarding a certain Moran's poker game, and to talk and even argue about strategies again with Sherlock is so normal I feel sick to my stomach with relief. The maid comes back and we eat, and I fall asleep at some point beside him on the bed. I don't think I would have been able to do so without a point of bodily contact. 

When I woke up this morning, Sherlock was asleep on the couch at the end of the bed. My eyes weren't open for more than a few seconds before his opened sleepily to meet mine, and I found myself almost smiling. 

He's taking a shower right now, and then we're headed off to end this, or something. Nothing feels real. Being alone for so long has started to feel more real to me, and this can't possibly be anything more than a dream. My leg hurts, and I feel incredibly stupid about it. He's just in the next room. I can hear the water running. He's not going anywhere. 

_He's not going anywhere._ Because we are going together. 

When the water turns off, the pain intensifies until he walks back into the bedroom. (Wrapped in a towel. He is skin and bones, but delicately so.) I pretend nothing is wrong, even though everything is. 

And we are off.


	17. December 22: Sherlock

12-22-2012  
14:56

I'm only writing anymore to clear my head of the things that resist deletion via usual channels, things that refuse to sink into oblivion. They seem to fade once written down. This conversation, from before the confrontation with Moran, keeps coming to the forefront of my mind...

"The plan is simple," I began. "Moran holds a poker game each week in the back room of the Flap and Throttle, near Heathrow. It's open to anyone with a sufficient buy-in. We'll go, and we'll play a few hands, and work out which of the men there is Moran. Then we go."

"Wait," John protested. "You don't know who he is?"

I scowled. "I don't know his face, no. I've seen his hands and heard his voice. I'll know him within a few minutes. We'll play only long enough to identify him, and then leave."

"Leave?" John frowned. "I thought we were going to finish it."

"We are. We're going to leave the table and wait for him to follow us. Then--"

"What makes you think he'll follow us?"

Wasn't it obvious? "He will know us immediately. He wants us dead; he'll follow us."

"About that, too," John interrupted. "Why does he want _us_ dead? I mean, not that I'm not in this with you, because I absolutely am, but why does _he_ care about me? I haven't done anything of note since you..."

He cut himself off. I looked away, giving him a moment, and when I looked back he looked calmer. "He cares about you because I care about you," I explained, quietly. "He perceives me as having killed his partner, and so he wants to kill mine."

John's jaw tightened. "I haven't been your partner in years."

Hardly years--not for another six months. "Perhaps not," I admitted, because it was hardly the time to argue the point. "But he perceives--and correctly--that your death would demoralize me, even incapacitate me entirely."

I thought he might put the pieces together, see why I did what I did. He did go quiet for a moment, but if he made any connections, he showed no sign of it. "Fine," he said eventually. "He wants me dead because you killed Moriarty."

"Because he thinks I killed Moriarty," I corrected.

John looked surprised. "Didn't you?"

"He killed himself."

"What--you destroyed his network and he lost his will to live?"

"No." I hesitated. "You asked me not to explain."

"Fine. Just--fine. So, we play poker. You figure out who Moran is. We leave. He follows us. Then what?"

"We get him alone, and you shoot him." Obviously.

"What? No!" John recoiled. "No. I won't--You want me to shoot a man in cold blood?"

One of John's best qualities is that he keeps surprising me; this was the first time the surprise was unwelcome. "A man who wants to kill you, who is directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people and indirectly responsible for thousands more."

" _In cold blood_ ," he repeated. "I won't kill anyone who's not an immediate threat. I won't plan to kill anyone. I'll have my gun with me and I'll use it if I have to, but unless we're in danger--"

"We are in danger," I insisted. "You'd be doing the world a favor. _Trust_ me."

"I'm doing my best to trust you, but to ask me to kill a man without knowing why is a little hard to swallow!"

The words rang between us in the silence that followed. He looked away, flushed and tense; embarrassed, but still angry.

"Fine," I said. "Mycroft will arrange for a police presence. No, Secret Service." I sent him a pointed look. "That will make it harder."

"He won't be expecting it," John pointed out. "He'll expect us to be waiting with guns in hand, ready to shoot him."

"I said _fine_." I picked up my phone to avoid looking at him and texted Mycroft what we'd need. "We'll need to leave in an hour. I need a shower."

When I left the shower, his hand was on his knee again. "You phone went off," he said, not looking at me. Mostly not looking at me.

It was a message from Mycroft. Everything was ready. The car was waiting. I looked back toward John, who was still looking at his leg. "It's been bothering you," I said.

"What? Oh." He put his hand on the bed beside him. Ashamed. "Yes."

"Is there anything I can do?"

There was; I could see it in his face. I watched his expressions shift as he debated with himself; I watched him settle and steel himself as he prepared to speak.

"I know there's not enough time for a real explanation," he said, facing me with shoulders square. "But tell me one thing: Did you--Sherlock, did you really think I couldn't help you? Did you really think I wouldn't be useful?"

"Is that what you think?" I shook my head. "No. No, I needed you every minute. Working without you was like missing a limb--or an entire sense."

"Then _why did you leave me behind?_ " he demanded. "Why leave me to believe that--that you..."

"Everything I did," I said slowly, keeping eye contact, "I did to keep you safe. Everything else is details; that is the important thing. _Everything_ I did, I did to keep you safe."

"Sherlock--"

"John," I interrupted. " _Everything._ Now come on, are you ready? It's almost time."

 

Since I'm writing already, and John's not here to interrupt, I may as well write down the way it all ended. I had thought the only thing that might go wrong yesterday was that Moran might not show. Half the regulars in his game were network members, now either dead or imprisoned. He was alone; he had no one, no backup.

I, at least, had John.

He was there, in the back corner of the smoky club we'd bribed our way into with Mycroft's money. I didn't need to look to know John is at my side; I could feel him. There were two others at the table; we approached just as a hand finished.

"How much to buy in?" I asked by way of getting Moran's attention.

We'd made no attempt to disguise ourselves; he recognized us both immediately. "Cash out," he told the other two; they grumbled but picked up their chips and left.

"Sit down," he said to us. "Let's talk business. We have a lot to talk about."

"How is business?" I asked, grinning broadly, not bothering to sit.

"There's a lot I owe you for," Moran answered, flat. "I'd like to see if we can settle that debt." Bold as brass, he took a gun from inside his jacket and laid it on the table; John had his drawn and pointed at Moran's face before it touched the tabletop.

"Let me be clear," Moran said to me, gun aimed at John. "I have nothing to lose. I am angry and desperate, and I don't care if I live so long as your precious doctor dies. So sit down. Call him off; I don't like being at the barrel end of a gun."

There was a long moment of tense stillness. I should have left John at home, I thought; why parade my weakness in front of my enemy? I sat; John sat beside me. Both guns settled slowly on the table; both right hands stayed near their guns.

"There we are," Moran said warmly. "Much more _civilized_ , wouldn't you agree?"

"Let's deal, Moran," I said.

"You didn't come here to _deal_ ," he sneered. "You came here to kill me. Tie up your last loose end so you can finally go home to your ever-patient doctor." He grinned. "Convenient that you brought him along, though. Makes it easier for me to make my point."

In a moment, Moran had his gun leveled at my face--at _me_. John moved just as quickly, aiming his gun at Moran. Moran smiled and said, "If you so much as speak, I'll shoot you, and then I'll shoot him," and then he turned to John. "I'm going to give you the same choice my boss gave him. Here's the deal: I can get off a shot at least as quickly as you can. You shoot me, I shoot him."

He stopped there. John glanced between me and Moran, brow furrowed. "That's not a choice," he pointed out slowly. "That's the setup you hope to use to make me choose the way you want."

Moran's eyes widened. "He didn't tell you?" He turned to me, laughing. "You didn't even _tell_ him? What, he thinks you actually jumped off that roof because your _reputation_ was ruined?" He waved his gun to indicate John without his aim leaving my face. "Go on, then. Tell him why you really did it."

One chance to speak. Possibly my last, if Moran had his way. My own survival was secondary to John's; I needed him to live. To find a way to save us both, if he could; to let me die if he couldn't, as it should have been. "John," I said, slowly. "Everything I did was to keep you safe."

"You said that," he said. His eyebrows rose as he realized--"He was going to kill me, unless you killed yourself." His face hardened, and he looked to Moran. "You want me to kill myself, or you'll kill him."

 

Mycroft insists upon my attention. Probably to do with coming back to life--tedious. Pointless. Will write more later, if I don't burn this book instead.


	18. December 23: John.

December... I don't even know. Does it even matter? 

“I won't just kill him,” Moran continued, a manic gleam in his eye. “Holmes may have taken out my best men, but even a boy who's never fired a gun before won't miss at point blank range. Happen to have a boy just like that, his pockets filled by me, aiming his gun right at your old landlady in my back room. If he hears gunfire of any kind, he has his instructions.” Moran stood, still aiming his weapon at Sherlock. “And so, Doctor Watson, it really is your choice.” 

Sherlock was silent. His chance to talk was over; there was no advice or instruction he would he able to give me. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, my gun still aimed at Moran's head. His eyes were hard, nearly defeated, but when they met my gaze something in them softened. 

_I'm glad to be here with you, too, Sherlock Holmes. Finally. But don't you give up just yet._

 

While Sherlock had been in the shower that morning, I'd been corresponding with Molly: _This might be it, you know. You cannot look like yourself. Do nothing, say nothing, unless you must._

She'd replied almost immediately: _I've been doing this for a long time now, John. You won't know me. I wouldn't want you to. But I will be there._

 

She was wrong, though. I did know her. She was sitting along the opposite wall, dressed in a short red number, the color of her lips matching her shoes. She'd kicked one shoe off in the last few minutes, and now had her foot propped up in the lap of the man across the table from her. I had a pretty good idea what she was doing with her toes. Her laughter sounded across the room, though it wasn't her laughter at all despite the fact that the sound was coming out of her mouth. It blended in with the guffaws and conversation of the several men and women left in the club. No one seemed fazed; gun fights were par for the course, here, it seemed. Either that or they all knew better than to interfere in Moran's ongoings. 

Sherlock had molded her into something, someone else since he'd been gone. Just as he'd made me into someone else, someone desperate and semi-insane. More anger, if that was possible, pumped through my blood on Molly's behalf, because she deserved better. 

But the anger wasn't directed at Sherlock, as it might have been in the past. It was all clear to me now, and clearest of all was that Sherlock deserved better, too. It was what we were willing to sacrifice for one another that made us the people we were. 

It was like a light switch suddenly turned on in my brain, and the obvious was once again staring me in the face. What would I have done, if I had been Sherlock up there on that roof, with the same choice to make? 

He understood Moriarty's game much earlier on than I would have, that is for certain. He was prepared. Molly'd helped him to survive the jump somehow, and in fact she was the perfect ally to have if you wanted to be declared officially dead. That, and having Mycroft Holmes for a brother. No, that part would have only been too easy to devise. 

If I'd had Sherlock's knowledge and insight, I would have done the same thing. I would have faked my death, I would have made Sherlock believe in it totally, if it would have saved his life in the end. 

Peripherally, I saw Molly stand, and the big lug she was with started to stand, as well. “No, silly, wait here. I'm just going to the loo!” She soothed him back down with her hands and rewarded him with a kiss before grabbing a small black bag I sincerely hoped she'd stashed explosives in, and headed down the hall. 

I needed to distract Moran. 

“If you'd been paying any attention at all, you'd have realized that I care nothing about my own life. Not with the life of my best friend at stake. Not when compared to revealing the _truth_.” I was talking mostly just to talk, to buy time, but that was dangerous, I knew, because I wouldn't have time to properly edit the words coming out of my mouth. The wrong words would get Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson killed. 

“You both care too much. It's sickening, it is.” Moran spat something black and foul-smelling to the ground; chewing tobacco, I guessed. Old-school. “My boss, God rest his soul, thought you two were fucking like rabbits. Like little school boys. My guess is, he was right.” 

I turned red, and I didn't dare look at Sherlock. He couldn't speak right now, but what would he have said, if he could have? We'd never talked about any of _that_. Maybe now we never would. 

“There is no choice, really,” I said. “I choose the same as him, and I'd keep choosing it again and again, and I bet he would, too. Would your boss have done that for you?” 

Moran's eyes widened, and I turned the gun in my hand to aim directly at my own head. _Molly, please, hurry._

I heard Sherlock take in a sharp breath, and I glanced at him and minutely shook my head. I wasn't sure if Sherlock had seen Molly, but knowing Sherlock, he had. 

“This isn't the same choice at all, by the way. I'd have been perfectly safe, as long as Sherlock was dead, if I understand it correctly. But if I pull the trigger right now, to choose Sherlock's safety over my own, Mrs. Hudson still dies in there. That isn't the same, Moran. Not by a long shot. Where's your honor?” 

I wasn't shaking; my hands were steady. The pain that had been pulsating in my leg the past day or so had evaporated completely and gone. As always, I wondered what that said about my internal disposition, but as usual I swept that worry under the rug, because I was in control, and things were fine, they were better than fine, and they would be even more fine if the gun that Moran was holding were not aimed at the man I loved. Yes, all right. I could talk about that. Sherlock should hear that, even if it's just the once. 

“ _My_ honor? What about your _partner's_ honor, eh? Where was his honor when he snuck up on all my men and women and took their lives? Hundreds of people, dead just so _you_ could live! One little old lady isn't going to even touch what he's already destroyed, that monster!” 

Hundreds? I dared not glance at Sherlock to see the truth of that written over his face, more for his sake then for mine. I couldn't blame him. I wasn't surprised. 

I would have done the same, for him. 

“Moriarty wouldn't have sacrificed so much for you. Well, he did sacrifice himself, didn't he, but it wasn't for you! It was for himself, for the sake of his grand master plan. For Sherlock, even. He wasn't even thinking about you.” I spoke and Moran's face seemed to turn dauntingly purple in the dim light; was this wise? 

“He trusted me to complete the mission, little man. He never lied to me, not like Holmes lied to you. He knew I'd carry it all out according to plan!” Moran's hand shook, and that worried me. For the first time I imagined what it must have been like, being hunted by a man presumed dead, all his minions disappearing without a trace. He must have been going just as crazy as me, trying to understand. 

No. Crazier. Definitely. And that was dangerous. My eyes narrowed and I held the gun closer to my head. This needed to end. I needed to hold out for as long as possible, to give Molly a chance to save Mrs. Hudson if she was truly in the back room, to be able to catch Moran, in his increasing agitation, off guard... 

“Sherlock didn't do anything that I wouldn't have done. And you're wrong, Moran. I never believed that Sherlock jumped because of a ruined reputation, or anything as ridiculous as that. Not even when I believed him to be dead. You see, I _know_ him. He left me clues, clues only I would know were from him, and even though we were apart, we worked together to bring the truth to light. I didn't need to know the details. Because I know _him_. That's always been enough.” 

I dared another glance at Sherlock, and he was staring me down, nearly willing me to lower my gun. I smiled, because _of course_. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to accomplish half of what he'd done if I'd been around, in danger. Look at him, thinking of me, and probably eighteen other things at the same time, but most obviously, of _me_. Me, my life, its end or its continuance, at the forefront of his mind. I understand now why things had to happen this way. 

“I forgive you,” I said, and I meant it. I caught him off guard again with that, definitely. My heart soared as his eyes lit up in surprise. “Fuck it all, I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Moran was not pleased. “He let you believe him to be dead! How can you say that?” 

“And _your_ partner died for real, and it's about to be for nothing. He couldn't even guarantee you a happy ending. He didn't even really care how things turned out for you in the end, did he? How could he care, when either way, you end up alone?” 

A soft sound emanated from Sherlock, a warning grumble so low that Moran wouldn't be able to hear. A warning to back off. Not to escalate the situation even further. Perhaps he was right. 

“Not as alone as you'll be!” Moran put both hands on the gun and my heart stopped, when there was a distant _BOOM_! 

A gunshot, from the back room. Moran was equally thrown off, but I recovered more quickly--I had so much more to lose--and I shot him once in the hand more closely cradling the gun. It went off, but hit the wall behind Sherlock's shoulder, and went clattering to the ground. Sherlock dived for it, and then we both had guns trained on Moran, crawling along the floor, as if there'd be an escape route for him. But there was no one left on his side to provide that for him. 

I very nearly felt sorry for the man, but then I noticed him fumbling in his jacket with his uninjured hand— _not_ his shooting hand. A second gun appeared and he tried taking aim, first at me, then at Sherlock, but he never succeeded in lining up his shot. Two bullets hurtled through his head and Moran very suddenly ceased being a problem for us. 

I would have stood there staring at Sherlock in wonderment for days had he not grabbed my hand and pulled me down the darkened hallway. I saw Molly standing at the end near the exit door with her arm around Mrs. Hudson, who was shaken but unhurt, and I grinned. I looked at Sherlock, and he was grinning, too. 

Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock and burst into appropriate tears. He put his arm around her on the other side and I opened the door, flooding us all in shocking daylight. Secret Service men rushed passed us on their way in, but none of them paid us any mind. Mycroft was waiting in a black van just outside in the alley, and as we all clambered in, Sherlock squished beside me, his hand seeking out mine, a sense of peace washed over me such as I have never known before, and probably never will know again.


	19. December 24:  Sherlock

12-24-2012  
21:18

Am now entirely alive. Have spent the last two days at Mycroft's, avoiding the press, managing paperwork, getting used to the idea that it's over.

We're back in 221b now. It's... unsettlingly familiar; everything was back where it had been, if rather tidier than before. I spent the first hour drifting, touching things, trying to fit back into this space.

John didn't interrupt me, for which I was grateful. Perhaps he had his own fitting back in to do, but he left me alone as I wandered into my bedroom. Even the bed was made up, and when I lay on it, it smelled just as it would have eighteen months ago--Mrs Hudson's detergent hadn't changed.

This has been a place to be honest with myself, and so I'll admit it, if only here on paper: I cried. The relief of it all--of being home, of being safe, of being _alive_ with John just in the next room. And the things I've done...

Well. I bear new scars on more than just my body. And I think there will always be things I don't tell John about the last year and a half. He would hate to be the reason for some of the things I've done.

I may have slept, for a little while. When I emerged, John wasn't in the sitting room, but sitting by the windows was my violin case. It was that, more than anything, which made me feel at home again in this space.

It needed tuning. The bow wanted a new hair, but fresh rosin had to do; and then I held it in my hands again, finally, and had no idea what to play. Eighteen months away and I was clumsy with it; I started a Tchaikovsky that John had liked and my fingers wouldn't cooperate. I went back to scales and arpeggios, practicing like a student until the motions were once again smooth and natural, and segued from there into an old song I'd forgotten the source of, except for some reason it made me think of cats.

"If you're smart you'll learn by heart what every student knows." Mrs Hudson's voice, and with an effort of will I didn't let it startle me. In fact I joined in: "You must sing your scales and your arpe-e-eeegios~"

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, as I packed the violin away. "To hear you play again..."

"None of that, now, Mrs Hudson," I said, hurriedly; I couldn't handle her tears today. I steered her into the kitchen with an arm around her shoulders. "Come and sit down and let me make you tea."

I stalled fussing with kettle and cups and teabags, and by the time I turned around with two steaming mugs in hand, she'd got her sniffles under control and I pretended not to notice the faint redness around her eyes. "Milk and sugar?"

"Oh, you know how I like it, dear."

"I... don't, actually." I fixed my own cup, giving me somewhere else to look. "I needed the space."

"Plenty of milk, just a little sugar," she said, and I fixed it and handed it across to her. "What did you need the space for?"

"You don't want to know." I sat down and watched her sip her tea.

"Why, then?" Her foot nudged my shin under the table. "Why was all this necessary? Why did you stay away so long?"

"No one explained?" Of course they hadn't; explaining myself would have to be part of my penance. "If I hadn't, you would be dead."

" _Me--_ "

"You," I confirmed, looking back up at her. She deserved eye contact. "And John, and Lestrade. Nearly everyone I care about."

"Oh, Sherlock..."

"Please don't, Mrs Hudson."

"Right, I'll just..." She stood, and I circled the table to hug her. "I am so glad you're home now, Sherlock, love."

"I'm glad to be home," I admitted. "I'm glad you're safe. I missed you."

She squeezed me tighter, and let go, and left. I listened to her descend the steps, more stiffly than she used to; her hip was worse.

I returned to my violin. It came more easily this time. I closed my eyes and relearned the movements, the space around me, the taste of the air and the sounds of my city. I heard John come in, and settle in an armchair, and didn't open my eyes; I played every song I ever knew, until my arms ached and my fingers were stiff.

There was too much in my head. Honor. Death. Crime. Feeling, the lack of it (you machine, that monster). _Love_. So much love--too much, in my chest and throat, choking me, burning my eyes. _Fuck it all, I love you, Sherlock Holmes._ Blood on my hands and my soul, and John holding a gun to his own head, telling me he loved me, and everything I'd done to keep him safe utterly pointless.

_I love you, Sherlock Holmes._

"Sherlock, stop."

Hands. Hands on my hands, tugging, restraining. Had I let myself get lost in a fantasy? I jerked away, ready to defend myself, and--it was John.

Not fantasy; memory. And this, this was real. "John," I whispered.

"You're all right," he said, which was stupid; of course I was all right. "Sit down. Breathe, okay? Just breathe."

"Don't be stupid, I am breathing," I said, or tried to; my throat was clogged, my voice too thick.

He took my violin from me, guided me into my armchair, wiped my cheeks with his own handkerchief. "Sherlock...?"

I couldn't speak to answer. I pulled him down and kissed him, then wrapped my arms around his waist and held him close, my face pressed into his chest. I couldn't bear to look at him; I needed him to be near me. He let me cling to him until I could speak, and when I could speak I said, "I made it home for Christmas."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest into my head and down my spine. "Best present ever." 

 

22:47  
He sees me writing. "What's that?" he asks.

I tell him, "Nothing. Just... processing."

He doesn't try to look. He's made me lose my trail of thought. What was I saying? --It doesn't matter; he's talking again. He's asking me if I'll tell him what I've done, someday.

"Someday, perhaps," I agree. I shuffle across the sofa, leaning into his shoulder. I'm putting my pen down now, because this is important.

 

22:53  
"John," I said.

"Sherlock?" he answered.

"I love you too," I said.

"I know," John answered. "I know you do. If it's hard for you to say it again, you don't have to. All I have to do is remember what you've done for me, which is maybe more than anyone's ever done for anyone... in the history of the world." I can hear him smile. "I'm quite lucky."

I couldn't stop a smile of my own. "Liar. I'm the lucky one."


	20. December 25: John

December 25th, 2012

 

I awoke on Christmas morning.

My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the morning light that was shining through Sherlock's half-open blinds. I looked up at the ceiling, not recognizing any of the changing patterns or subtle shapes visible through the uneven paint job. 

One day, I was certain, the sight would be familiar and welcome, and I looked forward to that day, but at the moment, it felt to me that it was time to open my Christmas present. 

I turned to look at Sherlock, and he was still asleep, or at least pretending to be. I ran my fingers through his hair and gently over his cheek and he moaned, not unhappily, though he didn't move. 

I booped him on the nose, simply because I could, because he was right there in front of me and it wasn't a dream or a hallucination. His eyes opened then, and he did not look pleased. (Though one can never _really_ tell with Sherlock Holmes.) 

Even though I was smiling innocently enough, he surged forward in bed, grabbed me and wrapped me up entirely in his long arms and legs, and then settled back down and closed his eyes again. 

“Shhh,” he said, and I barely stifled a laugh, but I acquiesced. To unwrap him would not actually require any sound. 

I was caught in the web of his limbs, my head nestled beneath his chin. One of my arms was shoved beneath me and the other was pushed down along my side within Sherlock's all-encompassing embrace, but I slowly inched them free until I was able to embrace Sherlock, in turn. He even shifted incrementally to allow it, and then we were closer than we'd ever been. 

I wore a T-shirt and boxer shorts, while Sherlock donned long-sleeved, silky, button-down pajamas. They were a dark burgundy, his skin the palest cream color against them. I was sliding all over the place against his silky exterior, until I extracted one of my legs from his and placed it alongside the back of his knees for a bit of leverage, should I need it. 

It occurred to me: I was not certain that Sherlock had ever done anything like this before. He was not being exactly proactive in the situation, but beyond being the _worst_ waker-upper I'd ever met, he wasn't doing anything that would lead me to believe he was uncomfortable or unhappy with this turn of events. 

I had the expertise, the upper hand, in this one arena, perhaps, and he was allowing it, trusting me, as I had always trusted him.

I shifted gently with my hips until our growing morning erections met at precisely the right angle, and then I continued making small, regular, forward movements with my hips against his. I nearly stopped breathing, and his entire body shuddered against mine. _Oh, yes..._

All I could think was, I've got to have my mouth on his. I've got to get these _clothes_ off of us. I extricated myself only slightly from him and he moaned again, clearly in protest. 

I brought my hand up to run through his hair again as I leaned in to kiss him, and it was unlike any of the other kisses we'd shared. The first was overwhelmingly emotional, the next few incredibly sweet and careful, but there was no longer anything being reserved between us. We'd unleashed our sexual tensions, finally, and we were completely alone in the privacy of his—our?—bedroom. A thousand fantasies coalesced into non-existence in the face of reality. 

Reality was Sherlock's mouth on mine. His mouth opened, willing but unsure, and I smiled through the kiss and joined our tongues together for a dance. Once Sherlock understood the basic concept, it was no longer a dance, but a war, and I was ready for him and all his ferocity. 

I managed to unbutton his silk shirt through the kiss, though getting far enough away from him to pull it off his shoulders was going to be a problem. Sherlock quickly assessed the situation, pulled away and pulled my T-Shirt up over my head in one smooth motion, his top following suit. He threw them, balled up together, against the far wall, and then turned and lay down, shirtless, on top of me. 

I'd seen him shirtless (and pantsless) before, of course, but never under these circumstances, never with free reign to touch, never while I was shirtless, too. He pushed himself up on his hands in order to find a better position and I carefully inspected each and every inch of him that was visible to me. 

He was smoother and paler than me, and less hairy, though I wasn't overly hairy, by any means. I brought my hands up to caress him from the edge of his pajama bottoms all the way up to his bare shoulders, and he hissed, sucking in his breath at the contact. Below his belly-button there was a trail of lighter hair that led the way south, and above it the hair was darker again, much like the hair on his head, with just a couple of small, adorable swaths of it congregated on his chest. I buried my face in them. 

“John,” he murmured, and I licked his nipple. He shuddered; every single part of him shuddered against me, and I decided that nothing else on earth was more satisfying. “No, John, I think...” 

“Hmm? What?” I sat up on my elbows, confused. Was something wrong? Was it something I did? 

Sherlock sighed unhappily, settling back down on top of me. “I think Lestrade's just tried to enter our flat to bring up Mrs. Hudson's Christmas tree.” 

My eyebrows rose. I did hear a bit of commotion on the landing, now that I was choosing to pay any attention. “You _think_?” 

“I _know_ , obviously.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me. “Can't I even attempt to employ a bit of tact on Christmas?” 

“You can make the attempt, sure,” I teased, and he ground his hips into mine in response. 

“Should we let them in?” he asked. 

“Mmm. Must we?” 

The pressure of his hips eased off, and his lips met mine instead. “We can't skip Christmas.” 

Then he was standing up, ruffling through unorganized drawers for his nicer clothes. His erection was evident through his pajama bottoms and I stared at it unapologetically. He caught my gaze, and with his eyes on mine, he removed his pajama bottoms entirely. 

“You are evil, Sherlock Holmes.” 

“I'll make it up to you later, Doctor Watson. I promise.” He winked, and I glared, but eventually began to get ready to receive our unexpected Christmas guests. 

 

Mrs. Hudson sat at the kitchen table, watching the flurry of Christmas activity about the flat. Lestrade and Sherlock himself had taken it upon themselves to be the joint heads of the decoration committee, while Mrs. Hudson and I enjoyed a nice cup of tea together. 

“I just couldn't sit downstairs all alone with all of my decorations, knowing you boys were up here without even a wreath!” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “And I knew Sherlock would just love a little gathering. Christmas has always been his favorite.” 

I raised my eyebrows. “Yes, I know. It was a lovely thought, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.” 

She turned to me, her eyes watching me carefully, and I braced myself. “I owe you an apology, John.” 

_Ah, so_ that's _what this was._

“No, you don't, really--” 

She shook her head, and put her hand on mine, somehow effectively silencing me. “I should have listened to you. I should have believed.” There was a wetness forming in her eyes and I'd never been very good at stopping that once it had started. 

I sighed. “It makes perfect sense why you weren't able to. I assure you, I understand. And it's all right.” 

Her hand held mine for a brief moment and then she let go, smiling at me once again. I relaxed. “You're such a good man, John. Too good to be true, I'd say. And he loves you so.” 

That took me by surprise. I quickly looked over at him, standing authoritatively with his hands on his hips, giving directions to Lestrade who was standing on a chair hanging a string of red and green lights from the ceiling. “I love him, too,” I said quietly, and Mrs. Hudson positively squealed. 

“Oh dear, I forgot something I meant to bring up. John, you'll like it. Excuse me, boys.” Mrs. Hudson stood, and made her way back downstairs. Sherlock shot me a questioning glance, and I could only shrug, taking a sip of my tea. 

 

A little while later, Mrs. Hudson was busy baking Christmas cookies in our kitchen, and Sherlock was warming up with some Christmas carols on the violin. He would be lost to the music for a time, and so it was just Lestrade and I left to decorate the tree. 

“Mycroft was the one who called to tell me, in the end.” 

“Oh?” 

“I couldn't believe it. In fact, if he weren't right over there, plain as the eye can see, I probably still wouldn't believe it.” 

I didn't know what to say. I put a sparkly blue snowflake ornament onto a low handing branch, adjusting it until I was satisfied. Then I went to pick up a red one, but paused upon realizing that Lestrade was standing quite still. 

I turned to him, and waited. 

“I would never expect you to forgive me for what I put you through. For what I almost did to you! Christ, John. Maybe we'd have been able to put a stop to all this sooner if only I'd--” 

“Greg, no, we wouldn't have. Sherlock was the only one who knew the plan, and the plan took just as long as it needed to unfold. We couldn't have done anything else. I swear it.” 

He took a step closer to me, and his eyes were pained. “I could have stood by you and been a better friend when you needed one, Detective Inspector aside.” 

Yes, I could have used a friend in the past year. Yes, I'd been through hell and back, and I'd been entirely alone through most of it, not knowing whether I'd ever see Sherlock again, not knowing whether I was right or whether I was crazy. But none of that was Lestrade's fault, and at least Sherlock and I had been alone, together. At least we could understand. 

“You did your best, Greg. You did what you thought was best. Hey, don't think on it, all right? Please.” I held my hand out to him, and he looked up at me, surprised. 

I nodded, and he shook my hand gratefully. “I don't deserve such kindness from you, John.” 

“Of course you do. It's Christmas, and we're Sherlock's family.” 

I knew that Lestrade was divorced, and hadn't seen his kids in a few months. And I knew that if Mrs. Hudson hadn't called him over this morning, he'd have spent Christmas day drunk and alone at home. It was obvious that he'd started, but I was glad he hadn't had need to finish. 

“I'm glad you're here, Greg.” 

He grinned. “Likewise.” 

We continued putting up ornaments, and we both watched Sherlock, listened to him playing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen in a very strange key signature, but of course he made it work. It went unspoken between us just how glad we were of Sherlock's being there, as well. 

 

Molly arrived late, but she brought an apple cranberry pie. Sherlock set down his violin instantly and enveloped her in a tight hug, which took all of us, but Molly especially, by surprise. 

She looked more like herself in a pretty green party dress with her hair curled, though there was a hardened edge to her that would always haunt her, just as it haunted the rest of us. I had no idea what exactly she had done for us, but I think Sherlock was more than aware. 

I edged closer to them and caught the last of whatever he was whispering in her ear. “... all in your account as of this morning. You can quit and never work another day in your life, if you'd like. I'm sorry, Molly Hooper. No amount will ever be enough to properly thank you.” 

Molly pulled away with tears streaming down her face. “But I was just playing my part. For you. For John.” She wiped her face with the back of one hand, smearing her make-up. “For Greg and Mrs. Hudson... goodness, you're all here!” She laughed through her tears, and Mrs. Hudson stood and pulled Molly into another hug. 

“We wouldn't be, if not for you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, stroking her hair. “I've got some brave guardian angels looking out for me, and now you do, too, love.” 

“Not just 'now', I want to make that clear,” Sherlock started, seemingly startling himself. We all turned to look at him, and he looked determinedly at Molly. “You didn't need to do anything to earn protection. I don't want you presuming that it's only now after... well. What I'm trying to say is, Molly, you've always deserved the best. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for going above and beyond.” 

“Yes, thank you,” I stood next to Sherlock near the entryway, taking his arm. “I wish I could have been in a position to be of more help to you, Molly, but...” 

“I'm sorry I had to lie to you, John, I hated it, every second of it--” 

Mrs. Hudson cut her off. “Yes, we're all very sorry and thankful, but look where John and Sherlock are standing.” She had a certain gleam in her eye, and my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. 

Everyone in the room was looking above our heads, but Sherlock was looking directly at me and smirking. I looked up. And there was a single sprig of mistletoe dangling there. Just as I'd feared. I glared at Mrs. Hudson, but all of the glares in the world could not have erased the joyous expectation evident in her smile. 

“'Tis the season, I suppose,” I said quietly, just for Sherlock to hear. 

He edged closer to me, head tilting thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Taking both my hands in his, he leaned down so that he could whisper into my ear, this time. “And for what it's worth, John, I'm sorry... for everything... if I could have--” 

I silenced him with my lips, and the room around us erupted into cheers. 

 

The end.


End file.
